


Victory, More or Less

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without defining the rules, you can't break them. Without defining the rules, you can't win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory, More or Less

This – whatever they have between them – is about dominance. It’s about  _winning_. And the Master thinks it always has been.

 

He remembers playing in fields of long, red, grass, barefoot and flushed; sweltering under the twin suns, watching the trickle of sweat travel down Theta’s face, until he wiped it away with a careless hand. It was friendly, then, healthy competition thrumming in his veins, making his hearts pound as they saw who could run the fastest, jump the furthest. Waiting for the moment it devolved into mock-fighting, finally, and he could trip Theta up and hold him down. Finding an outlet for aggression he didn’t understand in the way he pushed down on his arms, put a forearm to his neck until his friend’s mad smile turned to concern, to worry, and he started fighting back in truth.

 

 _This isn’t funny_ , he’d say eyes going wide and full of fear. So beautiful and large; he watched the butterfly-wing flutter of his pulse, and thought about pinning it to a board, as well. Koschei would lean in close, damp hair curling down to meet his forehead, and disagree – at odds, always.  _Yes, it is_ , he’d say, he’d grin, and feel him go limp under him. Victory assured, he’d let him up, hauling Theta to his feet with his hand wrapped around his wrist.

 

It was easy, in the Academy, letting tests and scores define the winner. No more feats of strength or friendly tussling in the grass – those were childish measures, not for Time Lords in training. Instead, Koschei excelled at smug and snide comments in the classroom; at dried-eye late nights as he forced himself to study; paper-cuts and ink-stained hands. He hid his breathless excitement, deep in his chest, when he saw he topped the class. But it wasn’t enough, not for Theta: he changed the rules, wriggled out from under them. Side-stepped the oppressive institution by making it a joke, by skating by on charm and quick thinking. He swallowed his anger –  _the embarrassment of failing at a game you didn’t know how to play –_  and gave the point to Theta.

 

Thinking back, it was inevitable, the way things progressed and became a mess, a tangle. Afternoons in their dorm, tumbling out of bed, a jumble of limbs; his fingers grabbing, grasping, at Theta’s hair and drawing him up to kiss. In these moments it was never anything sweeter than a smash of lips. Tongue hard and pressing, possessing. Making sure his mouth was swollen, red, and Koschei biting his throat and shoulders, forming bruises wherever he held him. Scraping his rough, stubble-covered jaw along ribs and hips, nipping harshly at the inside of his thigh, until Theta squirmed and panted, and begged him to stop – to continue. The pleading always worked, always made his hearts race, and he rewarded him with the softest kisses, his hands cupping his beautiful face, as he fucked him on the floor.

 

And afterwards, alone in their bed, he let Theta have his way. Let him kiss him playfully, the tip of his tongue darting, brushing, tickling; finding the sensitive spots he’d rather no one knew. Koschei lying back in the pillows, nervous and tense as Theta drove him mad with the delicate strokes of fingertips along his chest, lips pressed on his stomach, whispered words of delight and nearly-love as he took him in his mouth.

 

That’s the best they ever have, those slow-dripping golden days before they graduate. It’s never the same, not after they part ways. When whatever feelings the Master has turns simple and reductive; hate is easy to comprehend, and he singles out that thread from the others, using it to stitch their future. Opposing forces, light and dark, and he nearly laughs at how they’ve set up such an elegant dichotomy – so much cleaner than the truth. So much neater than acknowledging how emotions and shared history bleeds through the walls you build, secretly colouring your actions, your thoughts.

 

In the year they spend together, he tries not to let the Doctor get to him: he’s in bars, imprisoned by metal and his own, aged body, but his mind his free, clear ( _like his has never been_ ). The Master toys with letting him out, restoring him to youth and vigour. He could hold him down again, like they were children, students, and feel the truth in muscles yielding under his hands. Feel his victory in dilated pupils and hot, needy breaths, and and taste of fear in his sweat. At night he paces the airship, wondering if he’s missed the mark and if the Doctor has changed the rules again. He fists his hands and finds his wife and makes her pay for another man’s actions.

 

The Master understands, now, lying –  _dying_  - in the Doctor’s arms. Knows that it was never as straightforward as he believed, that brawn or intelligence could win every time. Knows that the Doctor was adaptable in so many ways, and that sometimes surrender was the ultimate victory. With a sneer, he embraces it, fully and completely, as he lets his lifeblood pump out and on to his dearest friend’s hands.


End file.
